I'm Still Here
by DrachenRose
Summary: Based on BBC characters. Two years after Sherlock's "suicide," he is still on the run from Moriarty's men. Holmes unexpectedly meets Watson and can't bring himself to leave, even though he knows it would be safer. But when Watson is captured by Moriarty's last assassin, will Sherlock find him in time? I'm planning on rewriting this-more material in the beginning & edit to fit.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

Sherlock Holmes waited until he was sure the man was gone, and then quickly went to break in to the house. It certainly wasn't his usual ingenious type of plan, but the situation didn't call for that type of thinking. Lock picking wasn't something he was very good at, or had to do often, but he was grateful now that he had taken the time to learn the skill. His friend's life depended on it.

John had been kidnapped by the man that was supposed to kill him if Sherlock didn't comply with Moriarty's demands. He was supposed to have committed suicide and claim to be a fraud, in exchange for three of his friends' lives. He had only followed half of the instructions, but it appeared to everyone as though he had done both. No one knew that he had been forced into a false confession, and no one knew that he hadn't really died. Sherlock didn't even tell John; he didn't dare take the chance.

But now it had possibly been in vain. The answer depended on what he found in the house...

The lock clicked open and the former detective cautiously stepped through the door, scanning the room for traps. Apparently the assassin was less careful than he had predicted. Or more confident. Sherlock was presumed dead, after all, and who else would come to save John? Nobody else had any idea where he was being held. In retrospect, Sherlock thought he should have left a note with the captor's address... But it was too late for such precautions. He needed to find John and get him out quickly. The assassin could be dealt with later.

It took some time of searching before he found the trapdoor and more before he could force it open. Every second that went past was a second lost, a second that might bring the assassin back to his house. If he was caught, the game was almost certainly up. Sherlock could defend himself, but not against a professional killer. And John was certainly not going to be in top condition after five days of captivity. If he was still alive. The man wasn't being paid for this: he was supposed to have quit following John once Sherlock committed suicide. Why he chose to follow John, of all people... But that didn't matter now. Speed was of the essence, and he couldn't afford to be distracted by theories.

Sherlock quietly descended the wooden stairs, and entered the basement. It would have been more accurate to call the place a dungeon. The walls and ceiling had been carefully soundproofed, and the large collection of ominous-looking equipment testified that Watson was not the first to be held prisoner here. He pulled out a pocket knife and began cutting the plastic bonds that held his friend on the cold steel of the table.

Sherlock had thought his friend was unconscious, but a small groan escaped his lips. "Not again..." John's voice was hoarse. Screaming, or lack of water? The wounds on his bare torso implied screaming. _Damn._

"I'm here to get you out. You're going to be fine." The first statement was true, but the second was uncertain. He seemed to only be lying to John recently. Even though it was for his own good.

Recognition flashed in John's unfocused eyes. "Go away, Sherlock. You're dead."

"Oh, NOW you recognize me." Somehow, he identified Sherlock through his disguise, even though he had not when he was completely lucid. True, that was an entirely different setting, but it wasn't much of a disguise. _John probably recognized my eyes_, he thought. He hadn't bothered to get color contacts. In fact, the only physical part of his disguise was to cut off his hair. The rest was acting. Sherlock hadn't expected to meet anyone who could identify him outside of London. No one looked for a dead man. John wasn't even able to identify him. But maybe that was because he didn't want to. Sherlock thought that a haircut and a fake name—especially one that was so obviously false to those who knew him—wouldn't have fooled his friend before. "Come on, let's get you out of here." He had to carry John, who wasn't able to stand without help. It was easier than it should have been: his friend had lost a lot of weight in captivity. _And after only five days...that means he probably wasn't given any food_. Sherlock didn't often feel hate, but there were exceptions.

They left the house, and he carefully strapped John into the backseat of his own car. He had borrowed it without permission, but it wasn't as if John was around to say no. As they were driving, his friend seemed to awaken a little more.

"Are you real?" he asked blearily.

"Yes." _Eyes on the road._

"I don't believe you..." John trailed off, trying to find the right words. "You're dead. If you weren't, you wouldn't leave me." He frowned, as if it wasn't quite what he had meant to say.

Sherlock winced. He had expected John to be angry when they were reunited. This was somehow much worse. "Thanks," he said, voice cold with sarcasm. "That was depressing as hell." _John is right, though. This is my fault._ He needed to keep a tighter hold on his emotions, but John was making that difficult.

"You're welcome," his passenger answered, confused.

He let out a small laugh. _And I get sarcasm right back._

Once he had gotten John checked into the hospital, Sherlock left to take care of the assassin. He was going to get answers to some of his questions. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, a little bit of revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up in a small, clean room that seemed to be mostly white. He turned his head and a wave of nausea followed, but it didn't quite seem like it belonged to him. Did he have someone else's nausea? No, that didn't make any sense.

A familiar figure straightened up, entering his line of sight. For a second, he thought it was—_stop being a fool. He's dead. He's not going to come back. _It was James, obviously. Even though he looked so much like Sherlock, much more than Mycroft ever did. The eyes were the same color, even though they didn't have the same intelligence. And James' cheekbones were much sharper. _He was also easier to like than Sherlock,_ John thought wryly. Both played the violin, but James did it to make money. John had met James a couple of weeks ago, through a group of local musicians. John had taken up violin about a year ago—he told himself if was because he liked the sound of the violin better when played live than on a recording, but that was a lie. After a year, he still didn't have enough practice to sound as good as Sherlock had. And for that matter, he suspected Sherlock had lied about the violin helping him think. It was hard enough to play the damned instrument in the first place, without concentrating on anything else.

"James? What—what's going on?" Talking made him realize how sore his throat was. And everything else...he groaned. "I feel like shit."

James had an odd look on his face, but John barely noticed. "Would now be a bad time to tell you my name isn't James?" Grey eyes studied him intently.

John stopped to think for a moment. "Uh, I don't know...?" What kind of question was that? And the way the man looked at him...

"Forget about it. Do you need anything?" the violinist's expression changed back to the one John was accustomed to. Although the searching, curious one was familiar, it belonged to someone else. Someone who wouldn't be using it anymore. Someone who was smarter than James Watson would ever be. He had to have imagined the flash of intelligence in the man's eyes. James was kind, but not smart.

John needed to move, to do something. Lying in bed was almost as bad as being strapped to that table, and—_don't think about it._ He struggled to sit up, if only to prove to himself that he had some degree of control. The nausea came back, and this time it most definitely belonged to him. "I'm going to be sick," his voice shook. John turned his head to the side; in the past few days, he had learned not to face upwards when he was about to vomit.

James carefully and steadily propped him up with one arm, and held a plastic hospital bag in the other hand. The bag turned out to be unnecessary, since he could only dry-heave. It would've been better if he could be properly sick, but he hadn't done that for days. The pain made him vomit everything up, so that bastard had stopped feeding him. Not that he could've eaten much.

When he finally stopped, his eyes were closed. He felt rather than saw himself being lowered gently onto the bed. Some noises in the background, then the wonderful, cool sensation of water against his lips. He drank too quickly, and had to stop for a moment and cough. After finally satisfying his thirst, John leaned his head back. Onto a pillow, not a hard metal slab. "How did I get here?" He realized he had no recollection of leaving that basement.

"I—" James began, then hesitated. _What was he going to say?_ "The police found out where you were being held, and got you out. Your captor is in jail, awaiting trial."

_Yes, but what were you going to say?!_ John vaguely recalled an odd moment earlier in the conversation. Everything was a bit fuzzy, even now. "You said something earlier about...about your name. What was it?"

"You must be mistaken."

There was enough confusion in the man's voice that John believed him. He was the one who had just been through hell, after all. He couldn't even remember if getting things mixed up was a normal symptom of his condition. Were there any "normal symptoms"?

James called a nurse into the room, and they spoke quietly for a few seconds before she hurried off. She soon returned, and fed him something. He couldn't tell what it was. Couldn't even remember what you would feed someone who hadn't eaten in days. But that wasn't his area anyways; he had never spent much time working in a regular hospital.

"Why are you here?" John asked him, suddenly curious. They hadn't known each other for more than a few weeks.

James smiled a bit. "They couldn't find any of your relatives, so I claimed to be a second cousin. They don't really think we're related...but you're under rules to have family visitation only, and they couldn't find papers to disprove it. Since they couldn't find anyone else to keep you company on such short notice I was allowed to stay." It was better to have someone he didn't know well than to be alone, but it seemed like quite the task for a man who didn't have any real attachments to him.

"Thank you for staying," John managed a smile.

James smiled back. Again, he looked so much like Sherlock it hurt. "Don't mention it."

A sudden realization hit him: "Wow, I'm an idiot." They looked so alike it couldn't possibly be a coincidence, and there was no reason for an acquaintance to stick around. It had to be him.

"What?" James asked, confused. He wasn't even trying to figure it out for himself, and didn't know the answer before John himself. That comment would have drawn a sardonic smile from Sherlock. The eyes didn't observe everything. It wasn't him...

...And John couldn't take it if he was wrong. The thought was terrifying to him. "It's - it's nothing."

"You should try to get some sleep." Too much concern in the tone of voice for Sherlock.

He _did_ feel awfully tired. "Yeah... Do you want to leave? You don't have to hang around, you have a job and…and things to do..." It was getting harder to concentrate. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a few minutes...

He heard a familiar laugh. "Go to sleep, John." As if he could do anything but.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent the days, for the most part, in John's hospital room. Unfortunately, that time was almost exclusively spent reading. Not that reading was bad, but he would have preferred to spend the time with John. His friend wasn't conscious for a great part of the time, and when John was awake he wasn't entirely conscious of his surroundings. But he was obviously improving.

Now that the last of Moriarty's men had been taken care of, it would be safe to go back to London. He could go anywhere in the world to set up business again, but London was preferable to anywhere else. In that city, there was rarely a shortage of crime. It would have to be done discreetly, of course; his name was now associated with fraud. But Sherlock still felt excitement at the prospect of getting back to work. When he was on the run he had to keep a low profile, which meant he couldn't work as a consulting detective. It would be good to be back in London.

Speaking of things returning to normal... John woke up and rubbed his eyes, obviously a bit groggy. "How are you feeling?" he asked, after giving him a few seconds to become more alert.

John seemed to take stock before answering. Typical behavior. He was getting close to normal. "Very good, thank you. A bit more lucid, I think."

"A good deal more lucid, actually." Judging by the way his eyes were more focused. He also sat up straighter, like the soldier he was.

John smiled at his "diagnosis." It was clear that he had questions. That was sensible; there were a lot of things in his explanation that didn't line up, but John wasn't able to think clearly enough to see them before. He had thought it would take more time for his friend to get to that point... "I hate to be rude," John rudely interrupted his line of thought, "but do you mind me asking why you're staying with me?"

_Yes._ But there was no excuse to not tell him the truth now, only that it was hard to know how to do it. _It's because you're scared. But you're not allowed to be scared, so you'll just have to stop._ He had hesitated too long, and now a false explanation wouldn't be accepted. "How much do you remember of our earlier conversations?"

John didn't seem to like the change of subject. "Bits and pieces. Is it important?"

_Ease into it. He's still sick, he doesn't need a shock._ "Earlier I told you that my name wasn't James Watson." _Of course, I had other fake names during the rest of the time I was on the run. Of course the only time I was using an obvious one, you showed up. If I had thought I might run into you, I wouldn't have picked it. But then it was too late to change it..._

There was hope in John's eyes. Hope? Maybe it wouldn't be a shock after all. "Well, what is it, then?" his friend asked impatiently.

_I believe you already know, Watson._ "Sherlock Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

John couldn't help but stare, as if the man in front of him would turn back into a near stranger if he looked away for an instant. At some point Sherlock had dropped the act—or had it happened gradually? There was still more concern than he was used to, but the face unmistakably belonged to his best friend. Sherlock's face looked thinner and his cheekbones sharper, but that was probably because the curly hair that used to soften his features was gone. And now that he wasn't pretending to have normal intelligence, Sherlock's eyes once more reflected what he was thinking. There was something about him that looked older and maybe a bit more worn than before, but it was certainly his friend.

"Jesus, Sherlock…" John let out a laugh. He wasn't quite sure why. "You really are Sherlock, aren't you?" He shut his eyes. "You're alive." When he opened them, Sherlock hadn't disappeared. He couldn't decide if he was surprised or not.

"You would have figured it out a while ago, but you didn't want to," his friend said, frustratingly correct as usual. If the word "usual" could even be applied to this situation. John felt like punching him. As usual.

Even so, John couldn't help but grin. "Probably." _Almost certainly._ "I was afraid of being wrong, I guess."

"Well, I would have mentioned it earlier but I was afraid you might be killed," Sherlock explained, his tone too casual for the words. John had almost forgotten how he did that.

He frowned, "What do you mean, killed? By that man?" They both knew to whom he was referring.

"Yes. But I didn't think he would kidnap you. He had no motive, besides sadism..." Sherlock trailed off.

"It's fine," John said, truthfully. There was no way they could have known something like that was going to happen.

"Not really, but there's no fixing that now." Was that bitterness in his voice? He couldn't see Sherlock's expression; his friend had turned to stare out of the window at something or someone.

He tried to reassure his friend, "No, really. It is."

"I had to fake my death in the first place so something like this wouldn't happen!" Sherlock's deep voice was strangely harsh. John had never seen him angry, at least not often. He had been mad or frustrated regularly, yes, but this was different. _I would hate to be on the receiving end of that,_ he thought. Now that he was thinking about it, what happened to his kidnapper? Sherlock said that he had been arrested, but what if that wasn't true? The thought made him shudder. This was the man who had thrown someone out of a window for striking Mrs. Hudson, after all. _He wouldn't do anything worse than that,_ John told himself. _He's a good man. _

All the same… "Calm down. No one died, did they? Sure, there was a bit of a mess, but it's all cleared up now." _Right?_

Sherlock still didn't meet his eyes. "If I had gotten to you a bit later, you would have died." His voice was still rough, but more subdued than it had been a moment ago.

John couldn't help but flinch at that. And he should've guessed that it wasn't the police that rescued him. Which meant that his best friend had seen everything. John wished that he hadn't. "But you didn't get there too late. So it's okay," he stated as though the subject was closed.

Sherlock sighed, unwilling to let it end there. "That's not how it works, John."

"Yes, it is," he said firmly. "It's okay, Sherlock."

At the sound of his name, Sherlock couldn't help but look around. _It's been three years since anyone else called him by his real name…_ John realized with a start that his friend's eyes were filled with tears. _So THAT was why he wouldn't look at me._ "John…" he began, but didn't seem to be able to finish.

_Even the great Sherlock Holmes is human. Despite what he may think._ And now he looked so very human, and so vulnerable. More vulnerable than John ever though he could be, and likely more than anyone had ever seen him before. _It wasn't only me who was hurt when he left. I wasn't the only one who was alone._

_Even the great Sherlock Holmes sometimes needs a hug. _John was glad that Sherlock leaned into him instead of pulling away, as he had almost expected. In that moment, John felt more alive than he had felt in three years, or maybe ever. "Just do one thing for me, Sherlock. Please. Just...just don't do that again. Don't be dead again," he said. It didn't come out quite as coherently as he had hoped, but his friend understood.

"I promise."


End file.
